


A Day in the Life of River Song

by cmartlover



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Humor, River-centric, Romance, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmartlover/pseuds/cmartlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River Song may be the Doctor's wife, but it's fair to say that she has a life of her own. After all, how else is a girl expected to pass the grueling days in Stormcage without having a bit of harmless fun?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life of River Song

A harsh ringing reverberates through the gloomy interior of the prison.

Grudgingly, I shift out of my not-so-comfortable cot, groaning as I hear the irritating voice of the guard a short distance away.

"Breakfast time, Dr. Song!" He shouts at me, his tone icy, cold, and condescending. "You've got a meeting with the warden in half an hour. So don't be late. We can't have a repeat of last week." The man snorts, and I simply grin, knowing that my nonchalant façade must be terribly maddening.

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear." I retort, lying easily and eliciting a pained response from the guard, who promptly places a tray of food outside my cell and skirts away.

One glance at the moldy bread, soggy eggs, and burnt bacon is enough to tell me that I will not be eating breakfast this morning; at least, not in this awful place.

Although I have often been known to 'mysteriously disappear' before my periodic sessions with the warden, I decide that it is in my best interest to be present on this particular occasion.

Besides, any opportunity to harass the prison staff is a worthy endeavor. I do so ever love driving them all into fits of rage.

Thrusting myself out of bed, I grab the weathered blue book from nearby—my beloved diary, a gift from my husband.

With steady hands, I flip through the crinkled pages splashed with my cursive handwriting, a sea of precious memories. When I reach a blank section, I scrawl the words, 'Day 677,' noting the date as I always do.

_Wow, I'm making progress._  I think sarcastically and then continue,  _677 Days of my 12,000 consecutive life sentences down, only a couple million more to go._

Reflecting on this, I find it difficult to believe that I have already been incarcerated in the Stormcage Containment Facility for two years.

My, does time fly! Especially for a time-traveling archaeologist slash wrongly convicted prisoner who has the ability to come and go whenever she pleases. That would be me, by the way.

Precisely fifteen minutes later, I am fully clothed, a flattering dress adorning my body, ruby red heels fashioned to my feet, and hallucinogenic lipstick ready for any—shall we say—'threat'?

The guard from earlier props my cell door open, carefully cuffing my wrists before leading me to a rather extravagant-looking office. It only takes a moment to detect the loathing glare of the warden.

"Dr. River Song. The notorious prisoner of cell 426. The woman responsible for the murder of the Doctor." He lingers on that last bit, relishing the look of distaste on my face.

I could really do without the intro to be honest.

"Oh, lovely to see you again, George, was it? It's been far too long," my slick response serves its purpose; the warden simply glowers and does not bother to correct me.

His first name is not George any more than my surname is Malone, and I know this full well, but find it too irresistible not to 'press his buttons,' so to speak.

"Sit down, Dr. Song! You were not called here to exchange pleasantries!" His sternness is entirely anticipated, and I do not so much as cringe.

With the most dramatic sigh I can muster, I comply with his wishes, taking a seat on the small black chair.

The warden's mouth begins to fumble open and closed, but all I manage to hear is incoherent gibberish. My fingers twirl a lock of my curly hair as the man jabbers on.

"Dr. Song, are you even listening to me?" He sounds exasperated, and how can I blame him? Dealing with me is never easy for the opposing party. "Song, I was just informing you that in the past year alone, you have made over 300 recorded escape attempts and have had nearly 500 incident reports filed against you…" As the man continues rambling, I vaguely listen, rolling my eyes in annoyance. "25 years I have been warden of this prison, and in all my time here, I have never,  _ever_  had the displeasure of having such an insolent, good-for-nothing—"

"Excuse me, dear, but I'm afraid I must be off to a very important hair appointment. Can't miss it. I've got a big date tonight." By that time, I have successfully maneuvered out of the handcuffs, as the warden realizes only too late.

His gaze darts to the unconscious guard lying across the floor, and he is distracted long enough for me to contemplate my next move.

_Do I use the hallucinogenic lipstick or go for the swifter approach?_ Glancing at the man's pale, wrinkly, rather unappealing lips, I choose to pass on the kiss. Brute force is generally better received anyway in my experience.

Knocking the warden out cold is an easy task, and in seconds my hand rests on the small band circling my wrist—my Vortex Manipulator—a very handy time-travel device that is, quite literally, my 'get-out-of-jail-free-card.'

A bolt of light flashes and I am no longer in the drab corridors of Stormcage, but instead a busy marketplace, not far from the hair salon.

My stomach grumbles, compelling me to make a short breakfast stop.

The appointment only takes about thirty minutes, and by the end, my curly hair is styled, no longer so frizzy, the loose ringlets framing my face like a lion's mane—just what the Doctor ordered.

Lunch is spent at a lovely little restaurant on Malta, a planet not unlike earth actually.

The menu offers a mixture of cuisine from across the galaxy, but for me, a mundane chicken anbeta salad is satisfying.

Unfortunately, by the time I am half-way finished, a gun-wielding, dog-faced alien from Barcelona—the planet, not the city—has taken it upon himself to terrorize the restaurant and its inhabitants, forcing me to spring into action. 'Melody Pond, the superhero', my mother once called me, and how right she was.

Needless to say, I deal with that raving lunatic in the most effective manner possible—by threatening him at gunpoint and turning him into the nearest intergalactic police, which goes rather smoothly, mainly because I do not bother to inform them that I am a convicted criminal myself.

The owners of the diner are so grateful that they even propose to give me a large sum of money, though I humbly decline, in favor of getting back to prison as soon as possible.

One zap of the Vortex Manipulator and the cacophonous Stormcage alarm rings in my ears yet again. Grabbing the phone connected to the wall outlet, I begin my daily spiel.

"You fellas are welcome to turn that off now. This is Dr. River Song, back in her cell. Oh, and don't bother to chastise me about what happened earlier; well, unless you want several hallucinating guards and one empty cell 426 on your hands, that is." On the other end, I hear the contentious mummer of voices; clearly the whole prison staff has been waiting for me to check-in.

Taking this as my cue to hang up, I do so, and remove the key to my cell from my secret stash, before entering as suavely as ever, ignoring the public service announcement regarding my return, which is presently blazing on the intercoms.

Without hesitation, I open the doors to my bigger-on-the-inside wardrobe, pondering what outfit to wear tonight. My hands rummage through rows and rows of clothing until stopping at my selected gown—an aqua blue, sleeveless, top-notch dress that my husband will absolutely love.

An hour passes, and at this point, I now add the finishing touches of my make-up, glossing my lips with a subtle, non-hallucinogenic lipstick and choosing to wear a pair of earrings my mother has given me.

Momentarily transfixed on the task at hand, I almost miss the soft pitter-patter of footsteps coming from just outside my cell.

"Hello Sweetie." I acknowledge my husband's presence before even turning to face him.

He sonics the lock on my cell door and invites himself in. Not that he really needs my permission; I am perfectly content with this arrangement.

"Hi, Honey. I'm home," the Doctor proclaims with a flair of melodrama, his voice eager and excited as he grins from ear to ear.

His often floppy hair is gelled back and done-up just the way I like it. I watch him finger his black bowtie self-consciously, and he tries to straighten it before I notice, which is, of course, a meaningless pursuit, because from my perspective, he could not be more obvious.

"I see you left the TARDIS breaks off. Wise choice, Honey." Noting the blue police box outside my cell (which, in fairness, is actually a bigger-on-the-inside spaceship slash time machine); I give my nod of approval.

"Well, I didn't want to cause a commotion." He replies smoothly, tone mirroring my own. With that, the Doctor, the man I supposedly killed, the man who is very much alive, the last of a great alien race—the Time Lords, my  _husband_ , takes me in his arms, placing a lingering kiss on my lips. "Mmm. You look lovely, Honey. What've you been up to today, then, dear?" the man in the bowtie asks cheekily, a suspicious gleam in his eye.

"Oh, you know. Skipped out on the rubbish breakfast—the prison food is absolutely horrendous. Decided to attend the meeting with the disillusioned warden, which of course ended with several unconscious prison staffers. Went to my hair appointment. Had lunch at that lovely restaurant you took me to once on Malta, only to have a run-in with a raving Barcelonan. I took care of that, obviously. And sooner or later, I returned to my cell like a good girl."

Laughing to himself, the Doctor is not the slightest bit surprised.

"Oh, so basically the usual, then?" he quips, a bright smile on his face.

"More or less. Just another day in the life of River Song, I suppose." Now it is my turn to chuckle, as I briefly recall the events of the day, which, in truth, are not so remarkable after all.

My husband slips his fingers through mine, his green eyes sparkling as he leads me out of my cell and into the blue box, the TARDIS, my home.

Hours have passed since the breakfast wake-up call, I have been hailed both a murderer and a hero, traveled half-way across the galaxy, and accomplished several other feats that I have probably failed to mention, all in a day's time.

And yet, the night has only just begun; and believe me when I say that  _that_  is a whole other adventure in itself.


End file.
